The Night Me And Your Daddy Met
“A man walked up and stood next to me. My goosebumps rose like flowers. I didn’t look at him. Not yet.”
The painting was violently ugly. It looked like overcooked minute oats, tinted dirt brown and beetle green, speckled with orange paint, pink glitter, and googly eyes — just because.
I squinted one eye, bent my neck to the side, and continued to stare at the painting. I wanted to see what the curator saw, what made them place it in a room filled with far stronger pieces.
“Wow.” I took a long sip from my glass of sangria.
“It’s something…special.” A man walked up and stood next to me. My goosebumps rose like flowers. I didn’t look at him. Not yet.
“It speaks to me,” I said.
“What does it say?”
I paused, listening, until their words became clear, “Damn, why am I ugly as shit?”
Our giddy laughter filled the room in seconds. Those around us, with white-powered scalps that would have made George Washington all too proud, low-heeled shoes that click-clacked on marble floors, noses so upturned angels had a full view of their sprawling nose hairs, damn near broke their necks to glare at us.
